


What Life Is

by eirabach



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Captain Swan Secret Santa 2016, F/M, Fake Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 05:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9478148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eirabach/pseuds/eirabach
Summary: There aren't many things Emma Swan won't do to keep her job, but this one - this one might break her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lanni (littlebabeswan) on tumblr fo the CS Secret Santa 2016.

The storefront is innocuous enough, tucked neatly away on a side street, with curling script on the signage, and window displays made up of soft swathes of white fabric.

This isn’t the sort of establishment that feels the need to advertise to passing trade. It’s exclusive. Desirable. The waiting list for access is half a mile long, and, at the top of it, sits one Emma Swan.

Not that you’d know that to look at her.

She’s frozen on the sunny sidewalk, facing down the double doors with a pounding heart, her best friend at her right shoulder, Regina and Belle bringing up the rear.

Years ago, one of her foster fathers had been obsessed with spaghetti westerns. Every Saturday afternoon, come rain, sun or hailstones larger than their heads, the half dozen kids who paid for his cable subscription would be tossed out into the yard with dire warnings to keep out of his way while he whooped and hollered his way through six pack after six pack.

Sometimes, when it was a particularly miserable day, Emma and her temporary siblings would press themselves up against the stucco walls for warmth, taking it in turns to peek through the window until he passed out on the couch and the way was clear for them to sneak back in. She’d never cared to watch westerns once she had a cable subscription of her own - they reminded her too much of cheap beer and frostbitten fingers - but she remembers those brief glimpses. Clint Eastwood with his narrow eyes and his posse at his side, striding down the street as smaller men bolted for safety.

The swing of saloon doors just before the bullets started to fly.

“Are you ready?” asks Mary Margaret.

Emma swallows hard.

“Not especially.”

“Well suck it up, Buttercup,” snarls Regina, “Do you know how hard it is to get an appointment at this place? I had to _plead_ to get you in at such short notice.”

“Regina,” Belle hisses, “leave it out, won’t you? This is a big deal.”

“A big deal? A big deal is what I’m going to be missing out on if I don’t get back to the office before those _useless_ monkeys from marketing wreck my pitch.”

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Emma grumbles under her breath.

“Please,” she can almost hear Regina’s eye-roll. “As if any of this would be happening without me.”

She’s got a point, and Emma bites down on her cheek - hard - to stop herself from _thanking_ her in a way that she’ll probably live to regret. Before she can give in to that urge - and what an urge it is - a figure moves behind the frosted glass of the doors, and her phone starts to bleep in her pocket.

Appointment time.

Why the hell did she ever think this could be a good idea?

“This is going to be so much fun!” Mary Margaret says gleefully, giving her a little push forward so that her feet are forced to follow the momentum, one after the other, until her toes hit the threshold and the door swings open. A somewhat rotund gentleman with a truly remarkable moustache beams out at them, backed by a what looks like a wall of blinding white. 

“Ladies!” he bellows, and Emma winces. “How wonderful to meet you! Now,” he folds his hands in front of him and looks from one to the other, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, “who’s my bride?”

Feeling like the miserable meat in an excitement sandwich, Emma forces her expression into what she hopes is a thrilled looking smile.

“Yeah,” she says, managing to fake enough excitement that he smiles even wider - the world’s happiest crocodile with dollar signs flashing in his eyes - “that’ll be me.”

\--

She’s not sure how she got here.

Okay, so she knows that literally she arrived via the interstate, squashed into the back seat of Regina’s Mercedes between a happily chirruping Mary Margaret and a serene Belle, that’s true enough, but more specifically how the hell did she end up _here_. Here at the centre of a world made up of organza and lace, her jaw aching from too-wide, too-fake smiles while her “own personal fairy godfather” springs from one rack of dresses to another, her friends following after him like so many enamored ducklings. 

At least Regina isn’t following him, choosing instead to stand at Emma’s side with her phone in her hand and a sneer on her face, looking for all the world like a bodyguard protecting an unpleasant but necessary asset.

Which, truth be told, she probably is. Regina is many things, but she’s no fool. She can see the way Emma grows ever paler with every glinting rhinestone, every sunshine smile Mary Margaret throws her way.

“Try to look less like you’re on trial for murder,” Regina tells her without looking up from her phone. “I hear these experiences are supposed to be pleasant.”

“You’d know,” Emma snipes back, quietly enough not to be heard by the other three who are cooing over something pouffy and feathered at the far wall. “How is the latest Mr Mills, anyway?”

“I left him in bed,” Regina says with a tiny quirk of her red lips. “Our honeymoon is proving to be _quite_ the adventure.”

Emma wrinkles her nose in distaste, half at the thought of her boss in the bedroom, and half at the off-pink confection Mary Margaret is tugging from a rack.

“Gross,” she says, loud enough to be heard this time, and Mary Margaret shoves the dress back with a pout.

Regina’s lip curls even further.

“Not looking forward to it, Miss Swan?”

Well that’s the understatement of the year.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. No, scratch that, it had seemed like a stupid idea at the time, and it still does, probably because it is the single most ridiculous idea she’s ever heard in her life, and that really is saying something. It feels kind of ironic that the only decision she’s ever made that didn’t have ‘this is a bad life choice’ written above it in neon glowing letters, was the one that led her to work for Regina Mills - a choice that in the end still led her to this: buying a probably horrendously overpriced wedding dress for a fake marriage to a guy she’d agreed to marry before they’d ever even met.

Well, that’s not entirely true. She’d spoken to him on the phone half a dozen times when Regina first decided his British-based shipping company was the latest jewel she wanted in her ever more glittering crown.

As Mills inc’s best business broker Emma had always been personally involved in all mergers and acquisitions, and this case was no different. Not at first, anyway. Normally the mergers don’t turn out to be quite this personal.

See, it turned out that Killian Jones, CEO and founder of transatlantic shipping firm JRS, wasn’t giving up control of his own company without a fight. All the money Regina could possibly throw at him was apparently inconsequential if his red line demand wasn’t met: he wanted his main men involved in the operation, and a permanent position on the board of directors for himself. Guaranteed. No ifs, no buts, no compromise.

Emma genuinely expected Regina to laugh in his face - over Skype if not in real life - but instead she’d locked herself away in her office from whence ever more frantic sounding phone calls and the crash of breaking glass eventually gave way to an ominous silence. By the time Emma had been called before her bosses desk, the shattered mirror on the far wall was the only hint of what was to come.

“Emma,” she’d said, and Emma knew it must be bad because Regina only used first names at disciplinaries and funerals. “We’ve got a problem.”

\--

They did have a problem. A pretty big problem.

The United States Immigration system.

As it  turned out, before becoming the chief exec of an internationally desirable company, Killian Jones had been a bad boy. A very, very bad boy.

“They won’t give him citizenship?”

“Not unless hell freezes over,” Regina says. “And you know I’m good, Emma. But even I’m not that good.”

“Self-deprecation, Regina? It really must be bad.”

“Don’t push me, Miss Swan. I’ve had one hell of a morning. I’ve rung every congressman who’s ever paid me off, I’ve called in every favour I’ve granted in the last thirty years. He’s not getting a work permit in this country with his record.”

“So that’s that, then. Deal’s off,” Emma shrugs. “There are other companies that can offer us the same service, Regina. US based without any personal demands or red tape. Can’t we just -”

“No!” Regina slaps the desk hard enough to make Emma jump slightly, her face turning petulant in a way that always spelled trouble for whichever company underling crossed her next. “I want JRS, and there’s only one way I’m going to get it.”

Emma winces. She’s no stranger to Regina’s less than moral business practices - is no stranger to the wrong side of the law herself, if she’s honest - but that doesn’t mean she has to like them.

“You’re not going to have him killed are you?” she asks, half in an effort to snap Regina out of her dark mood and half because she genuinely feels the need to check.

Regina pauses as if considering the idea for a moment.

“No,” she sighs, with more disappointment than Emma’s really comfortable with. “But you might.”

\--

Belle French is tiny. Even in her high heels and with her hair piled up on top of her head she barely reaches Emma’s chin, and she looks even smaller compared to the tottering mountain of law books she seems to carry about with her wherever she goes. She’s a sweet person, too. Always willing to see the best in everybody, which is pretty strange for a lawyer, but her almost encyclopedic knowledge and her actual encyclopedic bookcase make up for her lack of cut-throat villainy 

She’s one of Emma’s best friends.

She’s going to kill her, nonetheless.

“It won’t be that bad, Emma!” she says, swaying slightly against Regina’s desk as Emma looms over her with a face like thunder. “It’s only for two years and anyway it’s not like you have to even like the guy. Just look at most Hollywood marriages!”

“You can’t be serious,” Emma hisses. “Not that _bad_? You want me to marry a guy I’ve _never even met_ , and you think it’s _not that bad_?”

“You’re making it sound worse than it is,” Belle pleads. “It’s just for appearances!”

“Appearances? I don’t even know what he looks like!”

“Why Miss Swan,” Regina drawls, looking between the two of them with sly amusement, “I didn’t think you were the shallow sort.”

Emma gapes at them both, her jaw working but no words making it out. It’s probably for the best, because she’s pretty sure if she let rip now she’d end up instantly dismissed and with a rap sheet at long as Killian Jones’s.

“I’ve already spoken to him,” Belle says gently. “He says he’s game.”

“I bet he is,” snorts Emma. “He’s a criminal.”

“So are you,” snips Regina. “Perhaps you can share penitentiary pillow talk.”

“I’m not _sleeping_ with him,” Emma shoots back, and then curses herself as she sees the quick glance of victory between her boss and her now-ex friend.

“But you’ll do it?” asks Belle.

Emma collapses into the uncomfortable chair on the client’s side of Regina’s desk, and lets her head fall forward onto the mahogany surface with a heavy thunk.

“Why me?” she asks, mostly to the universe.

Regina hums slightly, as if thinking about it.

“Well you’re single, unattached, not hideously unattractive. Trustworthy, too, but not _too_ honest.”

“You’re a catch, Emma!” agrees Belle merrily.

“Plus,” adds Regina. “You need this job, do you not? I’d think very hard before saying no to me.”

Many a rival CEO has learned that lesson the hard way, Emma knows, and she has no particular desire to follow them into ignominy. Regina rips the hearts out of hard won careers with the same sort of casual disregard that most people reserve for changing their supermarket.

And she really does need this job.

Stuck between the figurative rock and Regina’s hard glare, Emma moans into the wood. It sounds like acquiescence.

\--

“Well,” says Mary Margaret as she solemnly uncorks the second bottle of Emma’s ‘emergency good red’. “It’s certainly unusual." 

“Unusual?” Emma spits, swinging her glass in slightly too wide an arc. “It’s fucking insane that’s what it is! Not to mention _crazy_ , and _immoral,_ and _illegal_ did I mention how illegal this is?”

“Once or twice,” deadpans Mary Margaret, “but if you shout a little louder I’m sure the cops are bound to hear you.”

“Oh my god,” Emma’s voice drops to a whisper, the wine sloshing over the edge of her glass as she leans forward to stare Mary Margaret dead in the eye, “you can’t tell David.”

“You’re getting married,” says Mary Margaret. “He’s your brother. He’s going to find out.”

“I’m not getting married,” sniffs Emma. “Not _married_ married, not like you two are, not true love and forever and ever and ever or anything - “

Mary Margaret leans forward, and gently takes the glass from Emma’s rapidly loosening fingers.

“And that’s enough of that,” she says gently. “Listen, Emma. I don’t know why it’s come to a surprise to you that Regina Mills is prepared to play fast and loose with the law. I promise it wouldn’t come as a surprise to your brother or any other officer in the state of Maine. I don’t intend to keep secrets from David - not for you or anyone else, but I will let you tell him in your own time. On one condition.”

“Why does that sound like a threat?”

Mary Margaret smiles, all sweetness.

“Oh,” she says, “it is.”

\--

She probably should have waited until she was sober, but with inebriation comes bravery and just enough stubbornness for her to growl her agreement to Mary Margaret’s demand and lock herself away in the bathroom, cell phone in hand and a determined scowl on her face.

“ _You should give him a chance”_ , Mary Margaret had said, all hideous optimism. “ _You might like him."_

“ _Enough to marry him?”_

_“Every love story starts somewhere, Emma.”_

Well if hers starts four glasses deep and locked in her brother’s bathroom, she’ll be demanding a goddamn rewrite.

The phone rings out for the twelfth time, and she’s just about to give up because _this is stupid oh my god what am I even doing right now?_ when the tone cuts off and a rough, sleep addled voice grinds out

“Hello?”

Oh right, time zones. Making drunk dials doubly shameful.

She should apologise. Apologise and hang up. Hang up, anyway.

“I don’t want to marry you,” she barks out instead.

“I think you’ve got the wrong - “

It’s the perfect opening but for some reason her drunk mouth is still working and words keep spilling out.

“No, I haven’t. You’re Killian Jones and I want you to know that I absolutely do not want to marry you. At all. Seriously.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line, broken only by the rustling of sheets. When he does speak again, his sleepy befuddlement is tinged with irritation.

“Well I shall try to take the rejection in my stride, though it pains me deeply. May I ask what I’ve done to offend you, strange angry lady?”

Emma looks at the phone in disbelief.

“Strange angry - do you know who I am?”

“Not the faintest, love,” he says, with such perfect innocence that she almost believes him.

“So Regina hasn’t told you?”

His voice turns serious.

“This is about the Mills takeover?” He pauses, but before she can say anything he carries on, his voice suddenly much more awake. “Emma? Emma Swan? You’re the -” a longer pause,this time, “wife?”

Well, he doesn’t sound any more delighted about it than she does. Which she should probably take as a victory. Probably.

There’s a little sting of rejection there though, that she doesn’t want to consider too carefully, instead willing herself to sober up enough to salvage some professional rep from this conversation.

“Yeah… yeah, it’s me. Listen this is some stuff - some really crazy stuff. I think maybe we need to talk. Stat.”

“I’d be delighted to, but as it stands it’s 2am, and I have a flight at six. I think this is the sort of thing best discussed face to face, don’t you?”

_Almost certainly not,_ the little sober voice inside her snaps, but the other part, the part too deep into it’s cups to care about what constitutes a good idea, hums in agreement.

He does have a pretty good voice, after all.

“I wish,” she says, and then the rest of his words crash over her like a bucket of ice water. “Wait, you’re coming here?”

He laughs, just a little rough at the edges, and goddamn but if her ears don’t burn.

What sort of wine is this anyway?

“Indeed I am. If, that is, I’m awake in time for my flight.”

Emma winces. Time zones, right.

“Right. Right, sorry. I’ll let you go. Good night.”

“Good night, Miss Swan. I’ll see you in the boardroom.”

She spends so long staring at her phone after he hangs up, that when Mary Margaret finally forces her way into the bathroom she pretends to have passed out in the bath.

There are some things she would never live down, but that’s not one of them.

\--

She doesn’t know who her parents are, growing up shipped from foster home to group home and back again, but she sometimes wonders if Regina knows. If perhaps, at some point in the dim and distant past, her birth parents had pissed Regina Mills off enough that she’d tracked down their child with the express purpose of making her life a living hell 

There can’t be many more logical explanations for why she finds herself hiding behind giant sunglasses in the arrivals hall at Boston airport, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible while simultaneously holding up a large white sign, _Killian Jones_ written across it in Mary Margaret’s bubblegum pink sharpie.

It could be worse. She could be standing here with Mary Margaret, whose sudden insistence that _this could be the start of something beautiful, Emma,_ isn’t any less irritating in the harsh glare of day.

The arrivals gates swing open, and a mass of humanity come surging through, their voices a mixture of tones and pitches that set her brain screaming for mercy. She closes her eyes behind the double protection of the sign and her sunglasses and wishes for death.

“I see Regina’s brought out the big guns.”

The voice cuts through the sound of screaming children and squealing reunions. It’s less crackly in person and during the hours of daylight, still rough but a little richer,and terribly, dreadfully familiar.

Slowly, in a doomed attempt to stave off the inevitable, she lowers the sign, pushing her sunglasses back onto her head until she’s squinting, the owner of the voice half silhouetted against the glaring airport lights.

Fuck.

He’s hot.

Dark hair standing on end from the flight and bright, bright blue eyes and an insouciant smile that she simultaneously wants to kiss and slap right off of the side of his face.

His eyebrows do some ridiculous dance on his forehead and she’s forced to hold the sign up in between them as a sort of rudimentary shield.

“What?” she manages, her mouth as dry as one of Regina’s staff party fruit cakes.

His grin grows wider, and there’s something a little wild in the glint of his teeth.

She doesn’t need her job this much.

Nobody needs any job this much.

“Your sign,” he says, needlessly gesturing to it. “High quality work, that.”

“It was short notice,” she mumbles defensively. “I didn’t have much to work with at 5am.”

She can pinpoint the moment he recognises her voice. His brows furrow slightly, his eyes narrowing.

“Emma?”

Bowing to her fate, she transfers the sign to her left hand, holding out her right for him to shake.

“That’s me.”

There’s a long pause while he sort of stares at her hand, then, achingly slowly he transfers the briefcase he’s holding from his right hand to what she now realises is a complicated looking prosthetic attached to his left wrist.

She tries not to stare, she really truly does, but the hook opens up in a sort of pincer movement to grab at the strap and she can feel her eyes go wide.

“That’s _amazing_ ,” she says.

He follows her eyes to the prosthetic, and shifts it so that it’s hidden mostly behind the bag.

“Oh,” he says. “I guess.”

Emma winces. Not the best first impression, then. Good move, Emma. Swell job. Maybe there’s a reason you’re the pathetically single sap handpicked for this task and _oh god stop thinking about hand puns what is_ wrong _with you_?

“Sorry,” she says, taking hold of his remaining hand and shaking it firmly. “That was terribly inappropriate of me.”

He shrugs one shoulder, and she’s both pleased and relieved to see another smile start working it’s way over his lips.

“Not a bother, Miss Swan. I’ve called it a few things myself in its time, yours is by far the politest.”

She’s not afraid to admit that she’s a bit flummoxed on whee to go from here, standing toe to toe with the guy she’s apparently going to marry, her palm still tingling from where he’d held it in his own. He doesn’t seem to have any better ideas, either, staring back at her until the tips of his ears flush pink.

She’s a little bit proud that he’s the first one to break eye contact. That bodes well for their future. Probably. Maybe.

The thunder of an approaching airport trolley heralds the arrival of another man, this one a little shorter, with close cropped hair and shrewd eyes.

“What’s this then?” he says. “Welcoming committee?”

He looks Emma up and down, his lip curling appreciatively.

“Not bad.”

“And you are?”

“Will Scarlett,” he reaches over Killian’s front to shake her hand, his eyes flicking meaningfully to her neckline as he says, “very pleased to meet you.”

Emma hums politely, turning her sign over and pretending to examine it.

“You don’t appear to be on my list,” she says.

“He’s with me,” Killian mutters, elbowing Will almost imperceptibly out of Emma’s personal space. “He’s my business partner.”

Emma surreptitiously checks out Will’s battered leather jacket, the jeans and ratty band shirt.

“Is that so,” she says.

“You’re not looking too hot yourself,” Will snaps back, before turning to glare at Killian. “Is this her? That girl you’ve some bloody stupid idea of -”

“That’s _enough_ ,” Killian hisses, and for the first time she sees something of the steely CEO who’d forced Regina into such a corner. “Best discuss _that_ in the privacy of the boardroom, hey Will? Not out here where all these delightful American officials are watching. With guns.”

Will huffs mutinously, but then gestures between the cart and Emma.

“Lead the way then, Mrs. Looking forward to some of Regina Mills’ favoured hospitality that’s for sure after being cooped up on that tin bird. Executive suite, limos, I’m expecting the works.”

Emma looks at the three large suitcases on the trolley, Killian’s briefcase and the carry on slung over Will’s shoulder, and thinks of her little bug, haphazardly parked outside arrivals with three weeks worth of late night takeaway wrappers stuffed under the passenger seat.

Looks back at the stupidly handsome guy with the wicked, wicked smile. At her _fiancé_.

“When it comes to Regina,” she says, “you’re never quite sure what you’re getting into.”

\--

It’s not the most auspicious start to a marriage. Or a business merger, for that matter.

Regina meets them in the cool of the underground garage, where the harsh lights emphasize Emma’s hangover pale skin and the scuff marks in the bug’s bright yellow paint.

“Is this the transport you lay on for all your honoured guests?” huffs Will as he tries to extract himself from the back seat. “No wonder you need a fucking shipping company!”

“How sweet,” Regina drawls as he finally makes it out. “You brought a pet.”

Killian’s mouth twists in annoyance.

“I brought my business manager.”

“Him?” Regina scoffs, and folds her arms, shooting Emma a look that she knows well. It’s the one that says _we’ve got this in the bag_. “Let’s get inside, shall we? I can tell we have much to…” she looks down at Will - a real skill being so much shorter - and smiles. “Discuss.”

They choose the conference room for this first meeting, the echoing space and the dull grey decor nowhere near as intimate or welcoming as one of the smaller offices, a fact that Regina clearly plans to play to her advantage.

After all, nobody gets onto the Forbes rich list through discussion of possible _mutual_ benefits, especially not Regina Mills - a woman so used to getting her own way that she might as well be royalty. Which is a fact that Killian Jones seems to catch onto quite quickly if his rapidly deteriorating mood is anything to go by.

The terms are typical Regina; reasonable on the surface but with an aftertaste like arsenic. JRS will continue to run under its own name, but its ships, crews, and dock workers will all become de facto employees of Mills inc. Killian Jones will get his coveted board position, but his role will be merely that of a figurehead. He’ll have no power, not an ounce of control over the company he built from the ground up, but an awful lot of money. And a wife.

“The pretty face of the operation,” Regina says from her usual spot at the head of the conference table, watching him pace with the self satisfied smirk of a cat taunting it’s prey. “I’d have thought that would suit you perfectly.”

“I don’t quite comprehend,” he snarls, “why the buy out of my company has to come at the expense of my pride.”

“Something you can stand to lose, no doubt,” sniffs Regina. “I have offered you a _very_ fair deal.”

She cuts her eyes to where Emma’s leaning against the wall, her arms folded.

“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating,” snaps Killian.

“Don’t look at me,” Emma says, keeping her voice barely more restrained as she glares at her boss’s smug expression. “I’m not for sale.”

“Oh really?” Will says, one leg flung over the arm of a boardroom chair as he watched the rest of them bicker. “Could have fooled me.”

Emma launches herself forward, but Regina stops her with a single beautifully manicured hand held in mid air.

“ _Mr_ Scarlett,” she says, butter-sweet, and Emma relaxes back against the wall, “the _sacrifices_ my staff are prepared to make in order to smooth the transition are not a matter for crude innuendo. Are _you_ planning to continue your current employment under the new management?” She arches an eyebrow, the threat implicit. “If so, I do hope your past indiscretions are not as numerous as those of your superior. Not even I can convince somebody to sacrifice _that_ much.”

She looks him up and down, her lips curled in disgust,  and Emma can’t help but bite down on her lower lip to keep in a snigger.

Will turns puce, his fists twitching on the tabletop as Killian runs his hand through his hair.

“All right,” Killian says. “We’re all tired, Emma and I were up late and Wi - ”

“Emma and I?” asks Regina, turning her shrewd eyes to where Emma is now gaping, horrified, at Killian. “Perhaps I spoke too soon, Miss Swan.”

“It wasn’t,” Emma splutters, “any - I mean - ”

“As I said,” Killian says, apparently utterly unconcerned with the death glare Emma is now sending him, “it was a late night. Perhaps some lunch?”

He turns to face her, his expression made up of the sort of pure innocence that makes Emma want to pick up the closest chair and beat him with it.

“Can I tempt you, Miss Swan?”

“With what?” Emma hisses, and the corner of his mouth twitches, his tongue flicking out just slightly as he catches her eye and steps towards her, all innuendo and swagger in the way he leads with his hips.

“Lunch, of course. Or would you prefer coffee?”

–-

They go for lunch, somewhere pricey that she only goes to on the company’s dime, all low light and tinkling silverware and a maitre‘d in an Armani suit.

She’d still have preferred death. His or her own, she’s not even picky.

Actually, scrap that. If any one at this table deserves to choke to death on an overpriced medallion of pork it’s got to be Will Scarlett, who’s sitting in between  them, his elbows on the pristine tablecloth, scarfing down jus and smear and parfait alike like a man who hasn’t been fed for several weeks.

“Did you have to bring him?” Emma asks, her fork poised over her plate, her nose wrinkled in distaste.

Killian’s lips twitch into a smile.

“To dinner or to America?”

“Both. Either.”

“Couldn’t leave me behind, could he?” sniffs Will, pausing to take a swig of the bottle of wine they’re meant to be sharing. “I’m his left hand man.”

He throws Emma what’s clearly supposed to be a winning smile, before belching in supreme satisfaction.

“Pardon me,” he says.

Emma drops her fork to the table.

“Seriously?”

Will shrugs, but Killian’s smile stretches wider.

“Seriously,” he says, tapping his prosthetic against the edge of his plate for emphasis.

He’s not quite like anyone she’s ever met, this strange man with his obnoxiously beautiful face and irritating friend and bizarre determination to become Regina Mills’ lapdog. Emma considers herself a fairly good judge of character - one of the many reasons she doesn’t trust most people further than she can throw them - but there’s something about Killian Jones that she just can’t figure out.

Not that slyness is really her bag. She prefers the direct approach.

“So,” she says, leaning forward slightly so as to bar Will from the conversation. “What’s your game?”

“I beg your pardon?” Killian asks, apparently taken aback by her sudden change of tack.

Emma rolls her eyes.

“Your game. The plan. What are you up to?”

He leans back in his chair, tilting his head to one side as if considering the question.

“Well I’m trying to have a meal with my fiancee, but apparently I’ve accidentally stumbled upon the Spanish Inquisition.”

Emma scowls.

“Don’t call me that.”

“The Spanish Inquisition or my fiancée?”

“The second one,” she hisses, half afraid immigration might come swinging through the restaurant roof to carry them away at any moment. “It’s not _real_.”

Killian arches an eyebrow.

“Why ever not? You _are_ planning to marry me, aren’t you?”

“She’s holding out for a ring!” cries Will, and Emma cringes, her eyes flicking about for an escape route. “Bloody women, all the same!”

“I am not ho - look, never mind that. Why are you trying to get on Regina’s board? You must know she rules that thing like her own fiefdom. You go where she says to go, and you jump when she says jump. If you’re after power - ”

“I’m not after power.”

He states it like a fact, his brow furrowed as if he can’t quite believe she’d think such a thing - as though her opinion matters. As though she cares.

She doesn’t care. But she does believe him - understand, no, never - but sure enough, whatever he’s after here, it certainly isn’t power. Then another thought occurs to her, and she narrows her eyes.

He’s hardly the sort of illegal alien likely to send Fox News into paroxysms of fear - rich and British and oh-so-charming when he wriggles those ridiculous eyebrows - but the world is a strange place, and she supposes a man with an arrest record like his probably has half a dozen - possibly literal - skeletons in his closet.

“So what _do_ you want? Are you in it for the green card?”

“The green card, or you?” he says with a wink, and Emma barely resists the urge to flick her untouched lunch at his face.

“You’re not here for me,” she dismisses that idea with a sneer. “You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t put yourself down love,” Will says,  managing to leer at her through a mouthful of potato. “I reckon he knows enough.”

He winks at her, before nudging Killian with his elbow. Killian, to his credit, looks faintly horrified.

Emma throws him her sweetest smile, before asking, a little too loudly to be polite, “Can you gag him?”

“Oi!”

Will bolts forward, fork in hand, but Killian forces him back into his chair with one firm hand on his shoulder, his eyes fixed on Emma. There’s something piercing in his stare that makes her shift awkwardly in her seat, her internal warning alarms both screaming at her and yet strangely silent at the same time.

She knows danger when she sees it. She just doesn’t always know what it is.

(Then that tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip and she thinks that maybe she does.)

“As… delightful as you are, love. I didn’t make those demands because I needed Regina Mills to play matchmaker.”

Emma forces herself to lean back, folding her arms and fixing her business face firmly back into place.

“So why did you?”

“Why is it anything to do with you?” Killian snaps, the gentlemanly veneer cracking slightly.

“Because it’s my job.”

“Prying?”

“Managing _mergers_.”

“Is that right? Business or pleasure, love?”

“I’m not your _love_.”

Will looks between the two of them like an over eager spectator at a tennis match, his eyes gleaming.

“Look at you two, acting like an old married couple already! Takes you back to the good old days, eh Killian?”

She’s heard the expression ‘white as a sheet’ before, but this is the first time she’s ever watched the colour drain out of someone’s face, and she’s pretty sure that if looks could kill she’d get her wish and Will Scarlett would drop dead immediately, face down on his dinner plate, from just a hint of the glare Killian’s sending his way..

“You’re _married_?” she spits, aghast.

She watches the bob of his adam’s apple, the twitch of his jaw as he struggles for words. In a business meeting she’d call that success - discomforting your opposite number until they’ll give you the moon on a stick if it keeps you quiet - but this doesn’t feel like success at all.

If anything, it smacks of betrayal.

“Widowed. Not that that is any of your business either.”

She wants to wait for the sting to ebb, gather her fucked up feelings long enough to be a decent person, but her mouth moves before she can stop it.

“What, not even as your fiancee?” she sneers.

All the colour rushes back into his cheeks, steel in  his eyes.

“Oh _now_ you’re my fiancee?”

Will, failing to comprehend that discretion is the better part of valor, reaches over to poke at her untouched food with his fork.

“Is anyone going to eat that or?”

Emma shoves her chair backwards, the screech of metal on wood drawing the eyes of every other patron and the wincing maitre’d as she stands up and throws her napkin down on top of Will’s questing cutlery.

“You know,” she hisses, “this was a terrible idea.”

Killian stands too, leaning forward with his fist on the table, sending the maitre’d skittering towards them, check in hand.

“You agreed to it,” he snaps, and she _growls,_ not at all grateful for the reminder or for the way he flings his own credit card onto the hovering plate.

“Well my judgement clearly needs a _lot_ of work,” she spits out, before spinning on her heel and marching for the door, perfectly happy to leave them to fend for themselves in a foreign land, company hospitality be damned.

(If a little thrill runs through her at the way he calls out after her - _You’re a tough lass!_ echoing through the vestibule as she grabs for her coat - then she’s not going to admit it. Not even to herself.)

–-

Not to herself, no way. But nobody expects the Mary Margaret inquisition.

She’s got her cornered in the kitchen - supposedly innocently putting away the dishes while Emma watches from her perch on the counter top - but Emma takes note of every sideways glance she’s shot since she started her rant about Killian Jones and friend, and she knows it’s only a matter of time until her sister in law goes in for the kill.

“He’s up to something,” she insists, drumming her heels against the cupboard door for emphasis.

Mary Margaret shakes her head, disappointment in the line of her mouth as she tries to balance a stack of pans.

“I don’t see how you can know that.”

“I don’t I just - listen. Why would he want to work for Regina? She’s willing to pay him enough that he could spend the next forty years playing golf every day and still have enough left for his bar bills, why put himself under her power like that?”

Mary Margaret slams the pan drawer shut, and turns on Emma.

“Maybe he can’t play golf,” she suggests.

Emma decides against being the bigger person, and sticks her tongue out at her.

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I? I still don’t know why _you_ want to work for Regina, but I’m not judging. I thought you were going to give him a chance, what’s changed?”

Emma thinks that sounds a lot like judgement if she’s honest, but she doesn’t say anything, choosing to concentrate on her hangnail instead.

“Emma?”

“Nothing,” she grumbles.

“ _Something_.”

“He’s just really - ”

Mary Margaret holds up a finger, and darts over to the other side of the kitchen island, coming back with a stool that she drags right up to Emma, climbing up onto it so that she can bore into her with her super eager eyes.

“Go on,” she says.

Emma drops her hands to her sides, looking briefly to the heavens for help she knows won’t come.

“Suspicious. And British.”

Mary Margaret snorts back a laugh.

“How dare he.”

“And hot,” Emma admits, just as the clatter of keys and the sound of boots being thrown across the hallway announces the arrival of a second inquisitor.

“Ah,” Mary Margaret says knowingly as her husband, Emma’s brother, strides into the apartment proper, shrugging off his sheriff’s jacket as he goes.

“Who’s hot?” he asks Mary Margaret, sparing barely a glance for Emma as he reaches over her head for a glass.

Mary Margaret’s eyes light up and Emma feels her heart drop right through the soles of her shoes and bounce away across the room.

“Emma’s new boyfriend!”

David stops, hand over the faucet, and stares. Her heart rolls over to the living room window and throws itself out to drop thirty feet onto the sidewalk below.

“Emma’s new what now?” he says, and Emma covers her face with both hands.

“It’s nothing it’s - okay, it’s a guy. But it’s nothing you need to y’know… think about. At all. Ever.”

David turns the faucet with such force that water spurts over the rim of the glass, soaking the counter top and the floor before he turns it off just as violently, throwing the drink back like a linebacker in timeout.

If he had a beer can he’d probably crush it with his bare hand just to prove he could.

Men.

“Am I going to meet this guy?” he says, slamming the glass down so hard even Mary Margaret squeaks a warning.

Emma peeks out from between her fingers, takes one look at the figure of towering machismo wearing the badge of law enforcement, and grunts out a rather pathetic:

“Not if I can help it.”

“Don’t be silly, Emma. You should invite him over for dinner!” Mary Margaret coos like the traitorous wretch she clearly is. Both Emma and David stare at her as if she’s gone stark raving mad.

“I don’t think that’s - ”

“Yeah, I don’t think - ”

“Well I do,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument. “Invite him over, Emma. Friday, maybe? That’s your night off right, David?”

“I could work overtime,” David mumbles, but Mary Margaret turns on him with an expression that Emma knows has made dozens of elementary aged boys quake in their boots, and he deflates like a balloon. “Okay, fine.”

She turns the teacher face on Emma who holds her hands up, capitulating without a fight.

“Yeah, okay. Fine,” she says, before adding in a warning tone, “But he’s busy, you know. He probably won’t make it.”

–-

Killian Jones beams at her over the conference room water cooler, pointedly ignoring the way she’s picking threads off of her sweater to avoid looking at him.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says.

She glances up, slightly taken aback by how quickly he’s replied, only be astounded even further by the genuine smile on his face.

“Really?”

“Really,” he assures her, then sighs, putting his water cup down so that he can lean over the water cooler until his earnest face is closer to her own. “Listen, Swan, I fear we rather got off on the wrong foot.”

“You could say that,” she scoffs, and the corners of his eyes crinkle in delight.

“This whole situation is a little unorthodox, I grant you,” he says, and she bows her head slightly in agreement, because holy fuck if _anything_ is unorthodox this is, “but if we’re going to do this, then I really would like us to be friends.”

He nods encouragingly at her as he says it, which is silly really because it’s a very simple word, simply said. He’s obviously figured out enough about her though, to know that the idea’s not quite as simple for her to get her head around.

“Friends?” she asks, as if it’s an alien concept. Which it might as well be. She can count her friend’s on the fingers of his only hand - and one of those is her asshole of a brother. And another is his wife.

(She prefers his wife.)

Killian shrugs.

“At the very least Swan, isn’t that what all the best marriages are based on?”

Emma thinks of all the marriages she’s known - ones based on mutual misery, on shared children and crushed dreams, of some that involved marrying at eighteen because that’s just what you _do_ and then doing it twice more before forty, and, of one, just one, the best of them by far, that began thanks to the life changing certainty of love at first sight.

She thinks about visa applications and sour faced officialdom and the bluest eyes she’s ever seen.

She thinks about when she’d dreamed of forever, and all the many many times she’s lost it.

“I wouldn’t know,” she says finally, lowering her voice as other people wander past, coffee break coming to an end. “About, you know, any of that. Love. Marriage. All that sort of stuff. It was never in the cards for me.”

That seems to strike a chord in him, and for a moment she sees something familiar in the twist of his mouth, the way his expression darkens just briefly a if he’s recalling some moment he’d really rather not, and with a flash of burning guilt Emma remembers his bitten out confession from the restaurant: _Widowed_.  

Then, just as suddenly, the moment passes and he smiles again, his eyes soft and his voice softer still.

“Well I do. Know, that is. And trust me when I say that if we can’t even be friends we are never going to fool an immigration officer that we’re a loving couple.”

Well, he’s got a point. Bitterly avoiding eye contact must come later in the marriage. At least she’ll be practiced for that part.

“Okay,” she says, holding her hand out for him to shake. “Friends.”

He grins at her, something salacious in the glint of his eye, and before she can pull her hand back he’s caught it in his own, lifting it to his lips so that he can brush the barest of kisses against her knuckles.

“Good,” he says, sounding weirdly breathless as she gapes at him, “and besides, I quite fancy you when you aren’t yelling at me.”

–

It’s a miserable night. The wind is howling around the apartment block, rain hammering at all the windows as if it’s as desperate to get in as Emma is to get the fuck out.

She can’t really remember the last time she introduced a man to her family, doesn’t think she ever has, actually, not unless you count that time her final foster mother had caught her, half undressed and horribly under aged, with a much older man in the family garage.

Neal had smiled the same cheeky grin that had helped him worm his way into Emma’s heart and halfway into her underpants, but it hadn’t stopped Ruth chasing him into the street, her steam mop thwacking him soundly across his bare ass as he ran.

(She should have let him disappear then, taken Ruth’s stern but loving words to heart and moved on.

Hindsight’s always twenty twenty.)

Still, Neal Cassidy had been caught attempting to deflower her teenage foster daughter on top of a chest freezer, and he’d still received a warmer welcome than the one seemingly awaiting Killian Jones.

Mary Margaret is playing the part of perfect hostess, making lasagne and humming lightly as she practically skips around the kitchen. David on the other hand leaves his gun on the sideboard, just occasionally re-positioning it so that the barrel points squarely  at the fourth place setting.

Emma lights the candle in the centre of the ostentatious table arrangement, and wonders why her hands are shaking.

“He’ll be here any minute,” trills Mary Margaret. “Best behaviour, David!”

David scowls, dropping into his usual seat and glowering miserably at the flower arrangement.

“I wanted you to be a nun,” he says.

Emma tucks the lighter in her pocket and slides into the seat opposite.

“I’m not even Catholic,” she says.

“You could have converted.”

“It’s just dinner,” she says, trying to simultaneously soothe David and convince herself. “If I had to spend four years living here listening to you two _true lov_ e each other on every surface in the apartment, the least you can do is have dinner with a guy I like without threatening to shoot him.”

“She likes him,” Mary Margaret scolds, pulling the lasagne from the oven and admiring her handiwork. “You hear that? When has Emma ever liked a guy?”

“I’ve liked plenty of guys,” Emma scoffs, “Just… temporarily.”

David rubs a hand over his forehead.

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

The doorbell rings, and the three of them freeze, just looking at each other for a moment before David stands with a long suffering sigh.

“You like him?”

Emma swallows hard.

“I do.”

It doesn’t feel much like a lie, and it’s hardly the worst one she’ll be telling if this all goes to plan, but god if David’s little answering smile doesn’t break her heart.

“All right,” he says. “I’ll play nice.”

–-

Killian enters clutching a bottle of decent wine in his good hand, wearing a leather jacket that makes even Mary Margaret look twice, and a smile that’s only for Emma. His shirt is a little askew from the rough weather outside and his hair a little bit wild, and Jesus _fuck_ she didn’t ask for this..

He tucks the bottle under his left arm to shake David’s hand, compliments Mary Margaret on the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen, and graciously says nothing at all about the gun on the sideboard or the badge prominent at David’s waist.

And when he looks at Emma, he smiles, and the world is suddenly a brighter place.

“No Will?” she asks, unable to think of anything else to say - unable to even get up out of her seat as he puts the bottle on the table and slides himself into the seat at her right.

“No Will. I left him discussing corporate law with your delightful Miss French.”

Emma lifts her brows in surprise.

“Is Will interested in corporate law?”

“Not as interested as he is in Miss French, I wager,” Killian admits with a laugh, and Emma finds herself beaming back at him until she catches sight of Mary Margaret’s smug expression and schools her features into something more neutral.

(It might be her imagination, but she thinks his smile dims a little when she does.)

Mary Margaret brings the serving dishes over, and she and David take their own seats at the little table. Emma takes the opportunity to spoon enough food onto her plate to feed a small army while David eyes Killian warily.

“So,” he says, “how did you two meet?”

Emma chokes on a mouthful of pasta, casting a terrified glance at Mary Margaret whose own gaze is fixed on Killian.

This was a mistake. They haven’t planned any of this, haven’t chosen a story or committed each others histories to memory, and now they’re going to be outed. Outed as frauds by her own brother and she’s never going to live this down, never ever, and maybe a life in a convent wouldn’t be all that bad and -

“Through work,” Killian says smoothly, casting her another smile as he continues, “Emma is managing the buyout of my company by Mills inc.”

“How lovely,” Mary Margaret says brightly. “And what is it that you do, Killian?”

“Yes what do you do?” asks David, eyes narrowed. “Emma’s told us nothing at all about you.”

Emma opens her mouth to argue, or at least tell David to shut the fuck up, but then Killian laughs, wholehearted and beautiful, and she almost jumps out of her skin.

“I wish I could say that surprises me,” he says. “But you know Emma, plays her cards close to her chest.”

“Indeed,” says Mary Margaret. “She’s quite the mystery when she wants to be.”

“Oh,” he says brightly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“All right,” says Emma, “I’m not the most outgoing person on earth, but you’re not exactly an open book yourself.”

“You misunderstand me,” Killian says gently, “I find you very easy to read. It’s one of the reasons I like you. You say very little, but your feelings are always written all over your face.”

Emma flushes.

“Are not.”

He grins, victorious.

“Afraid so, darling,” he says, and then leans over so that she can almost feel the heat of his skin when he whispers, “it’s okay. I won’t tell.”

David coughs pointedly until a scuffling sound from under the table mutes him with a muttered _ow_.

“I run a shipping company,” Killian says, loudly this time, in order to answer David’s original question.

David looks unimpressed.

“Shipping what, exactly?”

“Oh, all sorts,” Killian shrugs, but there’s a fling in his eye that reminds Emma of the lengthy rap sheet she’d seen. “Whatever pays. One man’s pirate is another man’s shipping magnate, as they say.”

“They don’t actually say that,” Emma says, and his mouth quirks into a smirk.

“They do when I’m around, darling.”

“What happened to your hand?” asks David, rather bluntly if Mary Margaret’s shocked _David!_ Is anything to go by. David, to his credit, flushes pink and immediately adds a semi frantic “if it’s not too upsetting to talk about of course, I don’t mean to intrude -”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Killian reassures him, laying his prosthetic on the tabletop, “this thing is always rather the elephant in the room.”

“Please excuse my brother,” Emma apologises, shooting death glares at David. “He’s so incredibly overprotective he seems to have temporarily mislaid his manners.”

“Really,” Killian says, and this time she can tell he’s only talking to her, his voice low and his body turned toward hers, “it’s quite all right. I don’t mind, and anyway, it’s nothing you wouldn’t learn via google anyway.”

David’s blush grows darker still, and Emma makes a mental note to check his browsing history.

“I was in the navy,” Killian continues, apparently without having noticed David’s stalker-esque guilty conscience. “I did some dangerous things, some stupid things, too. One of them cost me my hand, my wife and my commission.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mary Margaret gasps. “That must have been so dreadful, how ever did you cope.”

Killian shrugs, and looks down at his plate, pushing a piece of meat around aimlessly with his fork.

“Ask most people who knew me back then and they’ll say I didn’t.”

“And now?”

Emma doesn’t know why she asks, or what sort of answer she’s expecting to get, but it probably isn’t the soft, soft smile he offers her that makes his eyes crinkle and her breath catch in her throat.

“Oh I don’t know,” he says, “I think things are looking up.”

–-

Things _are_ looking up, at least professionally.

Will is no longer hogging both the best seat and the last doughnut in their merger briefing sessions, choosing instead to sit quietly on the sidelines and watch - lovelorn and adoring - as Belle discusses the finer points of business competition law, and the small matter of avoiding arrest for fraud. Emma spends a lot of time watching him, not because she’s especially rooting for the burgeoning romance between an obnoxious Brit and her once-bitten twice-shy friend - but because she’s purposefully trying to avoid watching Killian instead.

She’s a little afraid he might look at her in the same way Will looks at Belle, as if she’s something special. Important. Maybe even precious. She’s even more afraid he might not.

And that, of course, is the rub of it.

Every day she spends in Killian Jones’s company is another day where she sees his common sense, his determination, his sheer bullheadedness in the face of Regina’s more outlandish demands. Another day where she witnessed his thoughtfulness as he offers his assistance to the ever overloaded Belle and holds the door for the sandwich lady.

Another day where he stands a little closer. Smiles a little brighter. Let’s his hand rest on the small of her back when he pulls out her chair. Pretends it doesn’t burn, the heat of his touch lingering through meeting after meeting after meeting.

Another day where she finds herself wishing that maybe, just maybe, one day he might touch her and _mean_ it.

“How long is he going to be here?” she half pleads when she gets a moment alone with Regina, barricading the two of them into the executive lift with an impressive amount of button bashing. “I can’t keep this up forever.”

“Can’t you?” Regina looks skeptical. “You could have fooled me. Did you take acting classes in that misspent youth of yours?”

“No?”

“Funny, because you do an awfully good impression of someone who’s smitten.”

“I’m not _smitten_!” she cries, and Regina smirks.

“Of course not. I’ve been married four times, I have no idea what _smitten_ looks like.”

“Just tell me. How long is he here for.”

“You could always ask him yourself,” Regina says, then sighs at Emma’s mutinous expression. “Very well. If you insist on behaving like a teenage girl. His visitor visa will expire after a month, in order to return and take up his post, he will need to apply for a fiancé visa.”

“Which means what - we need to get engaged before then?”

“More or less, and if you know what’s good for you,” Regina says, “you’ll let me handle the details.”

“Why you?” Emma asks, faintly taken aback. “I can come up with a story.”

Regina rolls her eyes.

“Miss Swan,” she says. “You have the romantic soul of a potato. Your idea of a proposal would probably involve gummy rings and a ridiculous metaphor or six. We need people to _believe_ in this marriage.”

“People don’t believe in gummy ring proposals?”

“Important people, Miss Swan. Not just that gormless friend of yours and your pretty feather head of a brother. No,” Regina shakes her head, “this needs to be big. Leave it with me.”

–-

The invite arrives, crisp black script on thick card stock, just two days later, and Emma chokes on her pop tart when she realizes what it is.

Regina’s birthday parties have always been a thing to behold - the great and the not-so-good mingling and sneering and occasionally fucking under the watchful eye of Regina’s personal security and the occasional well-compensated paparazzo. Belle had been once, back when she was the bauble on the arm of the much older CEO of a rival company, but Emma had never dreamed of making the guest list.

Not until now, anyway. And she’d be a fool if she didn’t think this had more to do with Regina’s meddling than any sort of recognition for the years of graft she’s put in, but that’s not what’s got her heart racing.

No, it’s the way their names are printed next to each other, as if they’re a _thing_ , a pair, a _couple,_ that has her spluttering bits of toaster pastry down her work shirt.

_Killian Jones & Emma Swan_

(She wonders if this is what being asked to prom would have felt like - this sudden terror and a rising tide of nausea and _holy fuck she needs a dress_.)

Her phone buzzes, Killian checking that she’s received the same invitation he has, and she barely manages to tap out an affirmative in reply.

_Looks like it’ll be a big night ;)_

_Yeah_ , she sends back, folding the rest of her pop tart in half and stuffing in her mouth in the hope she might be lucky enough to choke on it, _that’s what I’m afraid of._

_\--_

She’s the one who goes to pick him up, waiting in the lobby of the company paid-for hotel and scowling at her reflection in the marbled walls. The light’s too harsh, her hair looks brassy and her dress looks cheap (is cheap to be quite honest - she’s not going _broke_ over this thing), but she practices a fake smile and it looks alright. Good enough to fool those who didn’t know her and most of those that do into believing that she’s happy. A woman in love, even though she’s not quite sure what such an alien notion would look like on her own face.

Then _he_ leaves the elevator all sin and smarm in a fine tailored suit, and the smile crumbles, brittle under the weight of his stare.

She can’t help the way her heart kicks up a gear, the tingle his smile sends across her skin. She can’t help being happy to see him, but god, she can’t be. She can’t.

“You look beautiful,” he says. “But then you always do.”

“And you look -”

“I know.”

She ought to smile back, be gracious, thank him, any of the half dozen other polite things that other people would do when complimented by a date, but Emma is not other people. 

“Do you? Cause I was gonna say mismatched,” she hisses out, her sudden, irrational anger catching him off guard.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asks, so smooth and noncommittal that most people wouldn’t notice the slight tick in his jaw, the way his eyes darken as his walls come up.

She sees, though. They are rather alike after all.

“You’re wearing navy, I’m wearing red,” she gestures between them, “what, have we come as two thirds of the national flag?”

“I don’t follow you,” he says, brow furrowed. “What does it matter?”

“Why do you think I text you what colour dress I was wearing. We’re supposed to match!”

His expression lightens immediately.

“Was that why? I thought you were just teasing a man, Swan.”

She rolls her eyes so hard it actually hurts.

“About the colour of my _dress_?”

“With the thought of you in it,” he shoots back.

“This is going to be a disaster,” she groans.

He tilts his head, suddenly shrewd.

“Is that what marriage is to you? Two people wearing colour coordinated party wear?”

“No,” Emma scoffs. “But it’s what the people at Regina Mills’ birthday bash will notice - how can we be a convincing couple if we can’t even look the part?”

“No one will care what we’re wearing,” he says gently, and Emma barely resists the urge to stamp her foot in frustration.

“Have you _met_ Regina?”

“Listen,” Killian steps into her space and takes her hand in his, entwining their fingers oh-so-gently, his gaze fixed on her the whole time. “Just - just leave this to me, all right? Follow my lead.”

“Why,” she asks, “you going to play Prince Charming?”

“I prefer dashing rapscallion, love,” he says with a wink, tugging her after him as he heads for the door. “And believe me - there’s no acting involved.”

–-

The party’s in full swing by the time they arrive, Emma leaving the keys to the bug with a perturbed young valet as light floods from the large sash windows of Regina’s screamingly ostentatious home and the sound of music and laughter echoes out of the open doors.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” she says, wrinkling her nose slightly as a man stumbles down the porch steps, clearly worse for wear. “I thought Regina’s parties were a little more…”

“Staid?” Killian asks cheerfully.

“Scary,” she admits.

“Well,” Killian pauses, watching the man on the stairs digging through his pockets. “I can see something out of one of our nightmares at least.”

“What?”

She catches hold of his prosthetic as he storms towards the porch, a strange little thrill running through her at how natural it feels to wrap her fingers around the curve of it as she scurries after him, her heels catching in the gravel driveway.

“Are you _trying_ to ruin everything?” he calls, and she almost lets go, but then the drunk man looks up and she groans.

“I would never!” bellows Will joyfully, his arms outstretched. “Killian! Mate! You’re late!”

“You’re drunk,” hisses Killian. “How can you possibly be drunk already? Why are you _here_?”

Will furrows his brow as if considering the question, but then the sounds from inside become momentarily louder and a second, smaller and more graceful, figure appears.

“I invited him of course,” Belle says brightly, her cheeks flushed. “Oh Emma, just wait until you meet Robin, he’s _so_ kind and welcoming and - “ she hiccups loudly. Will gives her a wide, adoring, sloppy smile.

“Robin?” Killian asks from the side of his mouth.

“The new Mr Mills,” Emma says lowly, “clearly he’s livened things up around here.”

“Listen, mate, just so as you know,” Will grabs Killian’s jacket lapels and pulls him close to whisper in his ear. Except, of course, he’s so drunk that it’s less whispering and more like a foghorn at point blank range. “There’s something in the punch.”

He winks extravagantly, and Belle nods.

“There really is,” she whisper-shouts. “I think we might be drunk.”

“You think?” Emma says with a sigh before tugging Killian free of Will’s extended grasp. “Have fun out here you two. Be good.”

“And if we can’t be good be careful, right?” trills Belle, and the two of them disappear into the dark of the garden, their giggles fading away as Killian and Emma watch them retreat.

“You still think they’ll care that we clash?” Killian asks her.

“Shut up,” she grumbles, but she holds his prosthetic tighter as he leads them through the door.

–-

It’s a party like no other, that’s for sure.

Emma stares, mouth agape, as what look like a load of overgrown college boys in various camouflage patterns play a riotous game of beer pong on Regina’s antique dresser top, mere feet away from where the woman herself holds court, as pristine and put together as always, with three expensively dressed and solemn faced members of local government.

On the other side of the room, beside the innocent looking punch bowl, a woman with tell-tale red soles on her shoes and a necklace worth more than Emma’s apartment brays delightedly at a seven foot tall man with a full lumberjack beard and mud on his trouser leg.

“Livening up, you said?” Killian says lowly. “I’m surprised the place isn’t on fire.”

It’s so surreal that for a few minutes the two of them can do little else but watch as tuxedoed waiters flit, ghost like, between groups of rowdy partygoers, their silver trays weighted down with a bizarre mishmash of long stemmed crystal ware and red solo cups, until, eventually, Regina notices their arrival.

“Not quite what I was expecting, Ms Mills,” Killian says as she approaches. “I’d been led to believe there was a long term moratorium on fun at these events.”

“I think that you and I view fun very differently, Mr Jones,” Regina sniffs back. “But it’s Robin’s first event here at the house and I wanted him to feel part of it.”

The hard lines of her mouth soften as she looks over to where a man with a scruffy beard and kind eyes is entertaining a group of lawyers with a story that seems to require a lot of expansive hand gestures.

“You’re being nice,” Emma states. “That’s weird.”

“Believe me when I say, I don’t plan on making a habit of it,” Regina sniffs, but her face stays soft until she looks away.

“So,” Emma shuffles on the spot, nerves starting to get the better of her, “We’re here, what’s the plan?”

“The plan?” asks Regina.

“You know,” Emma hisses, her eyes flitting about in case US visa control have plans to gatecrash, “the whole _thing_ with the _thing_.”

“Very erudite.” Regina drawls. “Not to worry, Miss Swan. Mr Jones assures me he has the matter in hand, so to speak.”

Emma’s attention immediately turns to Killian, who’s looking rather smug.

“You do?”

“I do.”

She lifts her brows in query and he shrugs, his eyes twinkling.

“Are you going to tell me?”

He taps his prosthetic against his chin in consideration.

“Trust me?”

Emma narrows her eyes, her hands coming to rest on her hips.

“Are you asking or telling?” she asks.

Killian smiles, placing his hand and prosthetic on her shoulders until she relaxes, her hands softening from the fists they’d found themselves in.

“Always asking, darling.”

He says it with sincerity, the smugness of his smile replaced with something kinder, something trustworthy, and even though she’s sure she should know better she nods.

“All right. I trust you.”

“How lovely,” grumbles Regina. “Try not to show me up, won’t you? You’re both representing the company here tonight - and it’s _my_ birthday.”

She turns on her heel and makes a beeline for her new husband, the sway of her hips as she moves across the room making a point that Emma isn’t sure she quite understands.

“She doesn’t want you showing her up,” Killian says, making her jump slightly with how close he is, his breath warm on the shell of her ear.

“Me?” Emma scoffs. “As if. I’ve never been to anything like this before.”

Across the room on a makeshift dance floor a man in a hunting jacket does the robot to the strains of a classical string quartet who are perched, alarmed but consummately professional, on a small stage above him.

“I don’t think anybody’s ever been to anything quite like this before,” agrees Killian. “But that doesn’t mean you aren’t the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“Don’t be creepy,” Emma says as her cheeks flush pink. “I was starting to like you.”

“Glad to hear it, but Swan, believe me, every man in here is looking at you and wishing they were me.”

“Why?”

“Because I get to do this, of course.”

He sweeps her onto the dance floor, elbowing robot-guy out of the way in the process, and rests his hand on her waist, holding up the prosthetic for her to hold.

“What are we doing?” she asks, swallowing butterflies as he grins down at her.

He tilts his head slightly, listening, and then pulls her ever so slightly closer.

“By the sounds of it, a waltz.”

He takes two steps, pulling Emma after him as she desperately tries to avoid stamping on his toes.

“Are you kidding? I don’t know how to do that!”

“Of course you do,” Killian scoffs. “There’s only one rule.”

Emma figures out his movements, following each of his steps with her own, and then looks up, grinning, to see him looking back at her with pride and affection, and something else she daren’t quite name.

“Pick a partner who knows what they’re doing.”

–-

He knows what he’s doing.

They dance, and flirt, and sneak solo cups of rum punch like kids at the prom she never got to go to, until her smile isn’t the fake, cold thing she’d practiced in the hotel lobby but something brighter and deeper that makes her cheeks ache and her heart feel full of something she doesn’t quite know how to name.

Killian wins two games of beer pong, and only loses the third when she sneaks up behind him, her hand ghosting over his ass as she leans over him to snatch one of the cups, and Emma almost forgets she’s at her boss’s birthday party, almost forgets that she’s about to commit fraud in front of a room full of layers and officials and, apparently, bushmen.

Almost forgets all of it, until Regina climbs on stage, silencing the music with a wave of her hand, and Killian slips away from her side.

“I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight,” Regina begins. “It’s a pleasure to celebrate in the company of so many friends and -” she catches sight of Will in the crowd and her brow furrows, “associates. I’d like to thank - ”

She doesn’t get any further. Killian appears on stage, his hair slightly mussed, and plucks the microphone from her hands. Part of Emma presumes that Regina must have been in on his plan, because there is no way she’d usually let such disrespect stand, but the rest of her, the majority of her, is frozen in terror as she realises what he’s about to do.

“How’s it going, folks!” he calls, and the crowd cheers drunkenly, “Are you having a good time?”

Another cheer, and he scratches behind his ear, looking out into the crowd until his eyes lock with hers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce to you the most extraordinary woman,” he says, beckoning for her to join up on stage, and quirking an eyebrow when she shakes her head furiously.

Oh right.

Trust.

She should have known he’d go in for something like this, but nonetheless she clambers up beside him, and gives the gathered crowd a bashful wave.

“Emma Swan,” he says, turning to her and dropping to one knee.

Someone somewhere shrieks, but Emma only has eyes for him, for the way he’s looking at her as if she’s the only person in the world. As though he _means it_. She swallows hard, and nods for him to continue.

“Emma Swan, we haven’t known each other long, but I knew -” he shakes his head, “I’ve always known from the moment I met you, that you were strong, and clever, and beautiful, but more than anything I knew from that very first moment that you were the other half of my soul, and I swear, Emma, that it is my greatest wish to spend the rest of my days being the man who makes you _happy_. So please,” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box that opens to reveal a beautiful, glittering solitaire. “Will you allow me the honour?”

“Yeah,” she says, breathless under the intensity of his gaze, “yeah go on then.”

He slips the ring onto her finger - a perfect fit that she figures she should thank Belle for - and the crowd, well, the crowd go wild.

A whirlwind of congratulations follow, the two of them separated by the drunk and cooing well-wishers, and Emma is subjected to dozens of hugs and cheek kisses that culminate in being lifted clear off her feet by Robin’s large and bearded friend, before she’s able to grab hold of Killian’s hand again.

“Happy?” he asks, with such a goofy smile that she doesn’t even think of lying to him.

“I am,” she says, squeezing his fingers, “you know, I really, truly am.”

“Give her a kiss!” somebody yells, and Emma sneaks a glance over his shoulder to see Will propped up against some architrave giving them two thumbs up.

When she looks back at him the giddy expression is gone, replaced with a sort of burning intensity that makes her stomach flip and her heart speed up.

“What do you think, Swan?” he asks lowly. “Shall we give the people what they want?”

She bites her lip and watches his eyes grow darker.

“I dunno,” she half-whispers, the punch making her brave, “do you think they can handle it?”

“Them, or you?”

She hums, tugging him down to her by the lapels, “Oh, _I_ can handle it.”

“Is that a challe - “

He lets out a surprised little sound as she pulls him down the last few inches, and crushes her mouth to his own.

The kiss is rough, but his lips are soft, soft and warm with the taste of rum punch, and when he opens his mouth breathing him in feels like coming to life. It takes her by surprise - the ferocity with which she wants him, her fingers rising to tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck and pull him closer, harder, _more_. She might have kissed him to quench the fire he lit within her but it hasn’t worked, instead it’s stoking it higher and higher until it threatens to consume her whole, her whole world reduced to this man and the way he tastes, to the burn of his beard against her skin and the want throbbing through her veins.

He’s gentle in comparison, his tongue soft against hers, his hand only moving to entangle itself gently in the ends of her hair, but she can feel his restraint in the tension of his shoulders, in the hot, solid length of him rising against her belly. When she finally releases him he leans back in, one, two, three small kisses to the side of her mouth, her cheek, the tip of her nose, before he pulls back to rest his forehead against hers, his thumb stroking at her cheek.

“That was  - ” he manages, breathless and flushed, his eyelashes dark against his pink cheeks, and all Emma can think is;

_Not enough_. _Not_ nearly _enough._

They sway in each others space for a moment, utterly unaware of the party still going on around them, until somebody - Will, probably - interrupts them with a gleeful cry of _get a room_!

“Well?” she says softly, rubbing her nose against his, her smile threatening to split her face. “Shall we give the people what they want?”

It’s almost funny, the way his eyes snap open, the blue almost entirely subsumed by desire, and she takes great pleasure in grinding herself against him and watching them flutter shut.

“Are you certain?” he grinds out, his jaw tight.

“ _Very_ sure,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.”

–-

They don’t get far, the sounds of the party dulled but by no means silenced as he presses her up against the cool tile of Regina’s bathroom wall.

She’s already lost one heel, the other digging into his back as she encourages the grind of his hips against hers, her dress is rucked up around her waist, his suit jacket hanging off the shower rail and goddamn it, it’s _still_ not enough.

She lets out a frustrated growl that fades to a whimper as he sucks a bruise into her pulse point, her hands struggling with his belt, need making her clumsy in her desperation.

“Ah ah, no you don’t,” he says, nipping at her earlobe before pulling away entirely, smiling at the scowl she throws him as her foot hits the floor.

“What?” she pants. “You don’t want to?”

“Oh,” he says. “I do. I want nothing more, but I _am_ a gentleman.”

“Please don’t tell me you want to wait for marriage,” Emma moans, “Please.”

“Impatient,” he hums, tugging at her dress so that it leaves her underwear exposed and she shivers, the tile against her ass contrasting fiercely with the burn between her thighs. “Never let it be said I keep a lady waiting.”

He grabs her waist, lifting her away from the wall and depositing her on the edge of the sink unit.

“Up you go, there’s a girl,” he says, stepping between her parted legs and pressing kisses to the line of her neck, her collarbone and the rise of her dress. “Let me take care of you?”

He drops to his knees, his breath warm and damp against where she aches for him, his hand hot on her thigh and the prosthetic cool and thrilling at the juncture of her thighs.

Emma leans back, resting her head against the mirror, the door directly in her line of sight and reminding her, suddenly and horribly, that she’s about to fuck this man in her bosses bathroom.

“We shouldn’t. We really really shouldn’t,” she gasps out as he uses the prosthetic to tug at the edge of her underwear.

It drops away immediately, Killian looking up at her in concern.

“You want to stop?”

She shakes her head furiously.

“Oh fucking hell no.”

He beams at her, and her heart clenches.

“Thank god for that. I’ve been waiting since that bloody airport to do this,” his prosthetic returns to play at the fabric and she lifts her hips ever so slightly to help him remove them. He presses her back down with a smirk.

“No, leave them on.”

With a flick of his wrist her underwear is pushed aside and his mouth settles against her, the first experimental flick of his tongue sending her hands flying over her head for something to hold on to.

“ _Jesus_ ,” she hisses out, and his answering chuckle makes her shudder helplessly against him.

“Killian,” he corrects with a quick nip to the skin of her thigh.  “Ready?”

She nods, pretty much beyond words at the sight of him between her legs, and his smile is even more beautiful when it’s pressed against her most sensitive flesh, his talented tongue dipping down, down until it’s all she can do not to grab him by the hair and _force_ him to where she wants him, lights blooming behind her eyelids as he sucks her clit into his mouth, the only sounds her desperate heaving breaths he brings her to the edge and the creak of the door.

The fucking _door._

Her eyes fly open to see a short, sour faced man standing in the doorway, his only reaction to watching Killian work the slight curl of his upper lip.

“Oh fuck. Oh _fuck. Killian!_ Killian stop!”

She slaps at his head until he looks up at her with a furrowed brow and glistening chin.

“What’s -” he begins, and she nods her head towards the door. Killian smirks, not even bothering to wipe his face before he turns towards the intruder. “Sorry mate this is a private - _you_!”

_You_ looks gleeful, leaning against the door frame with a nasty sort of smile as Emma tries to pull her clothing back into some sort of order behind the protection of Killian’s body.

“Well, well. This _is_ a surprise. I see your habits are much the same as they ever were.” he says to Killian, before pointedly craning his head around to address her. “Miss Swan, I presume? I’ve heard such a lot about you. Not _this_ much, but a lot.”

“Don’t you talk to her,” Killian growls taking a step away from Emma and closer to the man in the doorway. “Don’t you even look at her.”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid,” he says. “I can certainly see what it is you see in _her_ , Captain. I’m not so sure what it is she sees in you.”

She’s barely aware that she’s moved until the tile under her bare feet is replaced by plush carpets and then the damp cool leaves of the yard, until she’s ripped her keys from the hand of a bemused teenage valet, doesn’t hear him call out for her until she’s already behind the wheel, the ignition on and hot tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

She doesn’t look back until she’s halfway home. The tears taste like regret.

–-

Regina sits stiffly behind her desk, her hands folded in front of her, the long, red nails of one drumming out a rhythm on the leather surface. Holy shit, but she is _pissed_.

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” Emma begins, and then stops, her shoulders sagging. “Ok it was exactly what it looked like, but Regina - ”

“But Regina nothing,” Regina says, her tone clipped and her eyes cold. “You were a young couple newly engaged, I don’t suppose you’re the first ones to attempt to consummate that fact on a toilet cistern.”

“Well,” Emma says, “no it was a sink, but - ”

“No but what, Miss Swan? Are you trying to tell me that you were in the throes of some sort of epileptic fit? Or was Mr Jones perhaps attempting to hoist you out of the window to freedom using his face as a step-stool?”

Emma wrings her hands together, her face burning, until Regina seems to take pity on her - relaxing back into her chair and beckoning for Emma to take the seat opposite.

“Emma,” she says slowly, “something’s come up.”

“Is that another sex pun?” Emma asks, “Because believe me, I get your point.”

“No, sadly not. The gentleman who walked in on your little display, what do you know about him?”

Emma wrinkles her nose, trying to think back through the haze of humiliation. “Not much? He was an old guy, kinda short. Maybe Scottish?”

“He’s all of those things, Miss Swan, and many much worse besides. His name is Robert Gold.”

“Gold?” Emma asks, aghast, “The one who used to date Belle? The oil tycoon cum sex pest cum genuine lunatic? That Gold?”

Regina’s mouth sets into a hard line.

“I feel like Miss French would caution you to use the word ‘alleged’ in there somewhere, but yes. That’s the one.”

“Belle would tell you there’s nothing ‘alleged’ about it,” Emma snaps. “Did he have a heart attack? Because I can’t say I’m sorry.”

“Not exactly.” Regina sighs. “Has Mr Jones ever mentioned anything to you about Gold?”

She thinks of Killian’s reaction in the bathroom, the rage on his face, and just her chin out defiantly.

“No, never.” 

“Well I suggest you make inquiries on the subject before you decide to indulge in anymore public nudity, since Mr Gold has just sent me an email threatening that several unseemly and unlikely scenarios will befall Mills Inc. if Mr Jones isn’t removed from the picture at once.”

Emma balks at the threat implicit in Regina’s tone.

“And how is he suggesting you do that?”

“Why he’s offered to buy JRS immediately it transfers ownership - for twice the market value - on the understanding that Mr Jones will be immediately removed from the company and, ideally, the country.”

Emma shakes her head.

“But he- doesn’t he already have a shipping branch?”

Regina shrugs.

“Half a dozen I suppose, in markets all over the world.”

“So why JRS?”

“Same reason as I wanted it, perhaps. It was harder to get. That, or,” she leans forward, her brows furrowed, “there’s something a little more personal going on.”

“What are you insinuating exactly?”

“I don’t insinuate, Miss Swan, if I knew, I’d tell you, or better yet have dealt with it already. But as it stands, I don’t. I strongly suggest you ask your boyfriend exactly what business Gold has with him before indulging in any more naked gymnastics.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” grumbles Emma.

Regina groans, and rubs her hands over her eyes.

“Your definitions are your own, but in exactly ten days he’s going to be your husband, so I suggest you _figure it out_.”

She stands - the dismissal obvious.

“Ten days?” Emma splutters. “We only got engaged last night!”

“Well congratulations on such a brief engagement,” Regina says snippily. “With Gold sniffing around we need this deal watertight as soon as possible, and that means you’ll be sulking your way down the aisle a week on Wednesday.”

“Nobody gets married on a Wednesday,” Emma says, mostly to stop herself screaming.

“Which is exactly why the registrar could fit you in.”

She tosses a half dozen glossy magazines over the table where they flutter to the ground at Emma’s feet, each page a riot of flowers and pastels and smiling brides..

“I’ve a team working on it. All you need to do is pick a colour scheme and turn up.”

“Colour scheme?” says Emma blankly.

“Personally I prefer black and white, but you strike me as the insipid pastels type. You’ve a dress appointment on Thursday, so I’d lay off the carbs - we’ve no time for fittings.”

She gestures to the magazines, and Emma picks them up almost without thinking about it, tucking them under her arm as she turns to leave, only pausing as Regina calls out after her:

“And Miss Swan? Do be careful.”

It’s a bit late for that.

–-

And now she’s here, standing in her underwear, ten feet of toile and voile, tulle and crystal, and whatever the hell else lying in  a pile at her feet, Regina and the shop owner staring at her with matching disapproving grimaces; a line of other rejected choices hanging on the nearby rail, their dust covers askew.

“I _told_ you to lay off the carbs.”

“How about _you_ lay off,” snaps Mary Margaret, before turning to Emma with an encouraging smile and gesturing to the crumpled mass on the floor. “How about we try pulling it over your head?”

“Yeah, no.” Emma toes at the fabric, struggling to repress a shudder. “I don’t think this dress is anymore fond of me than I am of it.”

“We could try a corset back? More flattering?” suggests the owner, leading Emma to wonder how well he’d like to be flattered with her fist.

“Actually,” pipes up Belle from the corner where she’s been dreamily examining tiaras, “there was this one dress I saw - it’s not as fancy as these, but I thought - I thought it might be a little more you?”

“Eh,” says Emma. “I guess.”

There’s nothing in this wedding that’s about her. Not the venue, not the catering, not the ring. She didn’t even pick her own fiancé.

She might as well _look_ amazing.

Belle beams, and skitters off between the rails.

“Are you _sure_ you didn’t like that ball gown,” pleads Mary Margaret as soon as she’s out of sight, “I know Belle said it made you look like a Disney princess but I don’t think she was _trying_ to be mean.”

“She was being overly generous if you ask me,” sniffs Regina. “I thought you looked like a meringue.”

“ _Regina!_ ”

“No it’s okay,” Emma lays a soothing hand on Mary Margaret’s arm. “I did look like a meringue. A very regal one. We could have held the reception under that skirt.”

“Killian wouldn’t have minded,” Regina says, innocently looking down at her phone at Mary Margaret’s outraged gasp. 

“How _dare_ you.”

“Yeah,” sighs Emma. “About that, Mary Margaret -” 

“Oh thank god!” barks the owner as Belle returns bearing another ubiquitous white dust cover. “Let’s see what you’ve got shall we?”

He hustles Regina and the red faced Mary Margaret out of the changing area, ripping the curtains closed behind them.

“Sorry,” Emma mutters. “I’m not very good at this.”

“Nonsense dear,” he says, unzipping the bag and motioning for her to turn around. “It’s a stressful time in a woman’s life, and sometimes the people we love best struggle to understand that. I’m sure you’ll all have a good giggle over this one day.”

Emma hums noncommittally, watching in the floor length mirror as he pulls out the next dress, inch by startlingly white inch.

“Oh god,” she says miserably as it’s finally freed, “it looks like a shroud. Belle thinks my style is postmortem chic.”

The owner smiles.

“I’ll let you in on a secret Emma - they all do when they’re in the bag. You see a wedding dress is rather like a marriage. It might not look like much on its own, a white dress, a piece of paper,” he gestures for her to step into the dress as he  allows it to pool in front of her, “but the thing that makes it special,” he pulls it up, wriggling slightly to get it to sit just right at her chest, and then steps out of the way so that she can see herself. “Is you.”

The dress is satin, gently flared, plain and unadorned apart from a thin band of gold at the waist, cut high and straight at the chest and with a back that dips and dips, right down to the golden belt.

It fits like a glove, accentuating her toned arms and slim waist, but it’s the back that she loves, twisting this way and that in front of the mirror to get a better look.

She thinks of the way Killian had caressed her at the party, imagines the feel of his lips against her spine, and goosebumps break out across her bare skin.

It’s perfect.

(It also has pockets, which will be extra useful for keeping notes about her fake life, probably. She keeps that thought to herself.)

She doesn’t quite cry, but Mary Margaret does and so does Belle, the two of them leaning on each other and sniffling through wobbly smiles. Even Regina manages a look of cool approval.

“Very nice, Miss Swan,” she says, and the owner beams.

“Well,” he says. “Is this the one?”

Belle squeezes her hands together, Mary Margaret dabs helplessly at her dripping mascara, even Regina lifts a questioning brow.

“Yeah,” says Emma, her smile cheek-achingly wide. “Yeah it is.”

\--

If only she could be so sure about the groom.

It’s not that they haven’t seen each other since she bolted into the night, both half-dressed and half dead from shame, but despite the lingering looks he’s thrown her over the conference room table, she’s managed to more or less avoid him. Or, at least, avoid being alone with him, even if Belle and Will always seem to talk in whispers until they realise she’s within earshot and then immediately start bellowing utter nonsense about yield and trade tariffs.

It’s two days before their wedding, though, and she can’t avoid him anymore.

She’s sitting on the uncomfortable velour chair in the corner of his hotel room, several books spread over the small glass table in front of her, while he lies on the bed, almost aggressively attractive in sweatpants and a greying t-shirt, watching her with narrowed eyes.

“Are you planning to ignore me for our entire marriage?”

She burrows her nose further into the book she’s holding and taps her pen against the table.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he continues. “You know last time we were alone together you were a little more forthcoming.”

Emma lowers her book slowly, and fixes him with her best warning scowl. He lifts his hands in defeat.

“Don’t bring up the bathroom, all right. Got it. I’m an intelligent man, Swan. You can just tell me you’re not interested.”

But that isn’t the problem. Or rather, it is.

She is far, far too interested.

Almost every night since Regina’s party had ended with her undignified bolt for freedom she’s woken with her sheets twisted around her, sweat between her breasts and a heat in her belly that no number of cold showers have been able to quench. And when she gives up, aching and needy, and slips her fingers between her thighs it’s his name she whimpers against the tiles, his cock she imagines as she ruts against her own hand.

Maybe she flushes, because his eyebrows jump as he considers her.

“Or are you?”

“That’s not - that’s not the point okay?” she mumbles, the hotel’s carpet suddenly extremely interesting. “We are getting married in two days.”

“And now you’re the one who wants to wait for marriage?” he asks, tongue firmly in his cheek.

“No - I - Can we just write these stupid vows? Please?”

“Of course,” he says, inclining his head towards her and then stretches languidly, his grin growing wider as he catches her watching the pull of the fabric over his stomach. “You’re the one with all the books, any good ideas?”

“One or two,” she mutters, and then gives her head a sharp shake. “Look it’s all soppy stuff y’know. Soppy and mushy and - you’re not religious are you?”

“Not in the slightest I’m afraid.”

“Well that narrows it down,” she sighs, closing her book with a snap. “Do you believe in this stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“Love, marriage, till death do us part. That whole shebang. Did you really mean it, you know - last time?” Killian grimaces and sits up against the headboard, his eyes downturned, and Emma winces. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

“It’s quite all right, Swan,” he says, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. “I did. Of course I did, I wouldn’t have married her if I didn’t mean it.”

“You’re marrying me without meaning it,” she says, the words falling out of her mouth before she can stop them.

He turns to face her again, but there’s no flirtation in his expression now, no desire. Just furrowed brows and a tinge of disbelief.

“Am I?” he asks lowly. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

He says it like she’s wrong - like there’s something more - something brewing in the air between them that whispers of a secret truth buried under the layers of uncertainty and fear that neither of them dare to admit.

(Well, she’s not going to be first.)

“And what about Gold?” she snaps, her sudden change in tone leaving him reeling.

“Excuse me?”

“Robert Gold - that guy who caught us, well that doesn’t matter - he sent Regina a message offering to buy JRS from her if she… made you disappear.” Her voice grows quieter, nervous even, and Killian offers her a reassuring smile.

It doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Am I to swim with the fishes?”

Emma scoffs.

“Don’t be such an ass - why would he say something like that?”

“Maybe he was jealous,” Killian suggests.

“Killian.”

“ _Emma_.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s nothing.”

From her earliest days she’s been able to tell when people are lying to her. She could always hear the false sweetness in their promises, see the lie in twitch of a jaw, in the flash of an eye.

The other kids spoke of it in hushed tones from behind doors barricaded shut against promises of safety that were never kept.

Her superpower.

It’s served her well even as an adult - certainly it’s a skill Regina’s unafraid to rely on when it suits her - but right now she hates it. Right now, when Killian Jones looks her in the eye, and smiles.

_Lie_.

“It must be something,” she says, suddenly desperate. “Why would he -”

“I don’t know, Swan,” he barks as he swing his legs over the side of the bed, his expression fierce. “You can trust me, I won’t -”

“Trust you?” she spits. “I barely know you.”

He leans back on his elbows, and looks to the ceiling, a short, sharp laugh escaping him as he shakes his head from side to side.

“Oh, I see. It’s like that.”

Guilt rises like bile, and Emma stands, her hands twitching as she fights the urge to reach for him.

“I didn’t mean - ” she pleads, not sure exactly _what_ she meant but not wanting him to look at her - to not look at her - the way he’s looking at her now. Cold, and distant, and she shouldn’t care but she does, oh, she does -

“No, Swan. I know exactly what you mean.”

“You won’t tell me anything! And when we’re married -”

He stands and turns away from her, and she can see the way his muscles bunch under his t-shirt, the strain with which he holds himself in place, and she wants to touch him, want to touch him and heal them both, find out just what the hell went wrong here, but he speaks, and she doesn’t.

“When we’re married? This marriage is a farce.”

He could have slapped her. It would have hurt less.

(And that’s how she knows she’s gone, because wasn’t she just telling him the same thing? Wasn’t she just preparing herself for just this outcome?

Wasn’t she the fool all along?)

“Is that how you feel?” she asks stiffly, willing the tremble out of her words. “Because if it is then I -”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and Killian practically spins towards her, his face agonised.

“Emma, I’m sorry I didn’t -”

“Forget it.”

She brushes past him, shrugging off his hand, and lets the door slam shut behind her.

–-

“So you’ve called it off then?”

Emma looks up from where she’s been turning her engagement ring around and around, watching the play of the streetlights in its depths, to see David leaning against her kitchen doorframe, his mouth a little twisted as if he’s biting back a smile.

“Pardon?” she croaks out, and then coughs and wipes her hand over her bleary eyes.

“This ridiculous “wedding”,” David says, air quotes and all. “What? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Emma looks back down at her ring and scowls.

“Mary Margaret’s a traitor.”

“Mary Margaret’s my _wife_. And you’re my sister - ”

“Foster sister.”

“My _sister_ ,” David insists, dropping his hands to his sides before snapping on the overhead light. “Who apparently sits in the dark and mope about boys now. I didn’t see that coming.”

“If you’ve come to crow you can just leave,” Emma grumbles, wincing in the bright light. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d get like this,” Emma mumbles, but her heart’s not in it because David’s going to shout - David’s going to rant and rave and tell her how stupid she is - David’s going to leave and she’s all alone again and -

“Emma.” She blinks up at him, surprised to find him suddenly at her side, tears wet on his cheeks. “Did you think I wouldn’t want to come?”

“Does it matter?” Her voice cracks again and she grits her teeth, dropping the ring onto the table top. “It’s over.”

“Is it?” sighs David. “Listen, I don’t pretend to understand what the two of you are playing at by rushing into this thing - and I don’t think I _want_ to - but I saw the way the two of you looked at each other at dinner and -”

“Please stop right there,” Emma begs, holding her hands up. “Don’t make this weirder than it already is.”

“Oh?” David pulls out the chair opposite and sits with his chin resting on the backs of his folded hands. “Weirder than what exactly?”

“You,” she groans. “Suggesting I should make nice with a _boy_.”

“I don’t _like_ it,” David sniffs. “But at the end of the day he looks as you like - ”

“Like what?”

“Like I look at Mary Margaret,” he says gently. “Like the whole world could disappear and I wouldn’t even notice as long as she was with me.”

“You two are disgusting, you know that?”

“Utterly, and proud of it.” He pushes his chair back and stands. “Look Emma, life is what you make of it. I know you’ve been hurt in the past, I know better than most just how high those walls of yours are, but you have a real chance of something here. Of that happiness that Mary Margaret and I have. The only question is, what you going to do about it?”

Emma squints up at him and shrugs.

“Make sure I’m never over on date night?”

“You know what I mean,” David says, a hint of his cop voice coming through as he fixes her with his best scary big brother impression. “What are you going to do about Killian?”

“Oh I don’t know,” she says, disconsolately prodding at her phone. “I do have a really pretty dress I guess.”

“So?”

“ _So,”_ she picks the phone up and bites her lip. “I should probably… talk to him?”

“Probably,” David agrees, leaning down to kiss the crown of her head. “But can you do me one favour?”

“Sure,” Emma says, teeth worrying at her lip and her eyes fixed on the blank screen. “Whatever.”

“Next time he upsets you, let me shoot him?”

–-

She didn’t call him. What could she possibly have said? _I had a heart-to-heart with my brother and he thinks you like me_. How High School. Or, of course there was always the old Emma classic _I’d really like to fuck you and then never speak again_ option, but somehow, she doesn’t think he’d go for it.

Doesn’t think she would either, not when it came down to it, and that puts her off calling most of all.

So she didn’t call, but Regina must have. Or perhaps it was Mary Margaret who had convinced Killian not to give the whole thing up by giving him one of her wide eyed hope speeches. Perhaps it was both of them, the universe’s most unlikely tag team, both equally determined to see Emma on Killian Jones’ arm, even if it is for very different reasons.

Whoever it was, it must have worked.

They sit a hand span apart in the stupidly overpriced sushi restaurant that Regina’s chosen for their attempt at rehearsal dinner, both of them staring down at their plates, their chopsticks untouched and their fish curling slightly under the bright overhead lights. Emma opens her mouth, some smart comment about food poisoning and good excuses on the tip of her tongue, but then she feels him shift next to her - a long sigh followed by the twitch of his prosthetic on the tablecloth between them - and snaps it shut again.

“Swan -” he begins, and then jabs at one of his rolls, spearing it on the point of his chopstick. “Never mind.”

“You know,” she says quietly while picking up her own chopsticks, her eyes still fixed on her dinner. “That’s not how those are supposed to work.”

“You don’t say,” he says wryly. “At least I’m doing better than Scarlett.”

Emma looks up to where their friends and family seem to be having a ball of a time at the other table, Belle doubled over and shrieking with laughter as Will struggles a piece of salmon that’s making a frantic bid for freedom.

“That’s why Regina picked this place,” notes Emma, with a wry look at Regina’s smug smile. “She never misses an opportunity to feel superior.”

There’s a burst of applause as Will catches the fish in his mouth and gives the table a little bow, Belle hanging adoringly on his arm.

“I wonder how that’s working out for her,” hums Killian, and Emma laughs shortly as Regina’s smile twists into a frown.

“I wonder.”

“Listen, Swan -”

“Killian, I -”

“No,” he says, and she can tell he’s turned toward her despite the fact she’s still watching the others. “Me first. You were right. I do have history with Gold. Personal history. I wasn’t expecting to see him, especially not, well… under the circumstances, and I’m afraid I handled it poorly.”

“Did you punch him?” Emma asks, curiosity making her peek at him from the corner of her eye. “Because if you did, I’d say you handled it just fine.”

“You know that isn’t what I mean, Swan.”

“Not a no, then,” she says, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Noted.”

His lips twitch in reply, and then he sighs, leaning in towards her so that she can hear as he lowers his voice.

“About Gold. I -”

It’s barely a whisper, just a hushed confession over rice and smoked fish, and suddenly she just doesn’t want to - doesn’t need to - know.

The realisation hits her like a freight train, her hands shaking so much that the roll she’s just picked up goes flying from her chopsticks and hits the floor somewhere over her right shoulder.

She can’t be sure what causes it, if it’s the sincerity in his tone, or the way that he looks at her - as if she matters, as if she’s _important_ \- but whatever history he has with Gold seems suddenly and utterly unimportant.

He has his past, just as she has hers, and since she’s not about to spill her guts all over a false-lace tablecloth like so much cheap wine she can hardly expect him to do the same can she?

(Maybe it’s not the past that matters now, anyway. Maybe there’s a future here, if they haven’t already blown it. Maybe she might even let herself want it.)

“It’s okay,” she says, dropping the chopsticks back on her plate. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“Pardon?” he asks, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. “Say again?”

Emma sighs and rolls her eyes, but when she finally turns to face him it’s with the beginnings of a smile.

“I mean, I do want to know, but - in your own time. Just - just promise me it won’t affect,” she gestures between them with one hand, the other waving vaguely over to where the others are getting gradually louder, “- this.”

Killian furrows his brow and sneaks a quick glance at the other table before turning back to her.

“This being… the company?”

She grins, that vague idea of a maybe-future solidifying into something that feels a bit like hope.

“Do you think I’m talking about the company?”

He stares at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, his mouth opening and closing silently until he finally seems to find the words.

“A man dare not presume, Swan.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she hums, leaning towards him in turn so that their noses almost touch. “I think you can get away with it.”

–-

No one seems to notice when they leave. There are no catcalls or squeals of indignation that follow their abrupt departure, only the reassuring thud of the deadbolt on Emma’s front door as she pulls him over the threshold of her apartment.

“No nasty surprises coming from _there_ tonight,” she says as she runs her hands under his jacket and begins to push it down his arms.

“No nasty surprises at all, Swan,” he answers, smiling at the way she oh-so-carefully unhooks the material as it passes over his prosthetic. “Only nice ones, I hope.”

“Smooth,” she says, rising up onto her tiptoes to press her lips against his before standing back to look at him. “Coffee?”

Killian’s smile is salacious, his tongue slipping out to dampen his lips.

“Is that a euphemism, love?”

She lifts one eyebrow.

“Do you want it to be?”

“So you _do_ want to wait until marriage?”

“It’s only twelve hours, and it would be good - _fuck_.”

He surges upon her, his hand twisting in the fabric of her sweater as his prosthetic gets caught in her hair, his lips hot and wet and demanding as he pushes her up against the wall. She can’t help the way she moans when he grinds against her, her hands fluttering uselessly over the buttons of his shirt as he moves to mouth at her throat.

“That’s the idea, darling,” he mutters against her pulse, untangling his prosthetic so that he can use it to pull at the neck of her sweater for easier access. “I feel that perhaps there’s something we left unfinished, hmmm?”

She yelps slightly when his teeth graze her collarbone and he pulls back, alarm flashing briefly in his dark eyes.

“No,” she manages, swallowing hard. “It’s ok - it’s… better than ok - but my _dress_ \- ”

“Ah,” he says, the alarm immediately drowned by desire. “No marks?”

The fire in her belly banks and burns brighter, and she gnaws at her bottom lip, only daring to look at him through her lashes.

“Not where they can see?”

“Oh darling,” he says, his grin sinful. “Your wish is my command.”

At least they make it to the bedroom this time, collapsing onto the bed in a wild tangle of limbs and mouths and half-removed clothing, Killian rearing back to pull her jeans down her legs and then tossing them over his shoulder with a delighted wriggle of his eyebrows.

“Why, Swan,” he says, lifting her leg onto his shoulder and nipping at the skin of her knee. “You remembered!”

Emma groans, plucking at the elastic of her underwear - the same pair, in fact, that she’d been wearing the night of Regina’s party.

“I have others,” she grumbles, and he laughs, kissing his way up her thigh and then resting his chin just under her belly button.

“So they’re not a favourite?”

“No?” she struggles up onto her elbows so that she can see his face. “I think they were part of a multipack from Old - _Jesus!_ ”

Killian tuts, holding her ruined underwear in the curve of his prosthetic.

“I told you, love. It’s Killian. Watch.”

She tries, keeps her eyes fixed on his as he dips his head and licks a thick wet stripe right along her centre, but then he’s using his forearm to push her thighs further apart, his thumb and prosthetic spreading her wider as he laps at her, his tongue tapping against her clit until she’s trembling, her hips struggling to rise from the bed as she searches for harder and faster and more, her eyes squeezed shut as she whimpers things that might be oaths or pleas or just his name over and over and -

There’s a sharp sting that sets her gasping, her eyes flying open as it fades to a burn of pleasure pain, her body straining as he pulls away to examine the crease of her hip, puffs of cool air over her soaked flesh making her tremble.

“Not where anyone can see,” he says, and she catches the glint in his eye even through the haze of her desperation. “I do believe you liked that.”

She doesn’t answer, can’t answer, only writhe helplessly beneath him as he sucks another bruise into the opposite crease, every pass of his tongue over the stinging flesh followed by a too gentle kiss to her core.

“Killian please,” she whimpers and he laughs, the bastard laughs, the vibrations almost making her sob with frustration, and that is _quite enough of that_.

It takes all of her strength, but she manages to flip herself over until he’s the one bleary eyed and gasping beneath her, her knees pressed into the mattress either side of his head and her chest heaving with indignation and want.

“I should sit on your face you bastard,” she grits out, and he looks up at her from between her thighs, delight on every inch of his damp skin.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, the tendons in his neck straining as he tries to reach her. “My very, very great pleasure.”

“Well tough luck, buddy,” she says, grinning wickedly as she shimmies her way down his body, her victory assured as she rolls her hips against his and his eyes flutter shut, in the catch of his breath as she lines herself up. “I’ve got other plans for you.”

–-

She wakes about six to a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“Don’t open your eyes,” he whispers. “It’s bad luck.”

“Wha -” she grumbles, tugging at her sheets. “Wha’s bad luck?”

“Seeing each other of course,” he says, as though that’s obvious, and she can’t help but giggle, her hands grabbing blindly at the empty air.

“Wait,” she says, as she hears the heavy thud of something hitting the floor and a low curse, “have you got your eyes closed too?”

“Yep,” he says from what she thinks is the direction of the door. “God only knows what I’m wearing, Swan. Something scandalous I hope.”

“ _I_ hope,” she says, still grinning. “I’ll see you later?”

“That you will.” His voice is low and sincere. “Until then, Miss Swan.”

She doesn’t dare open her eyes until she hears the click of the door closing, settling back into her bed with a dreamy sigh, satiated and happier than she can remember being, well, _ever_. Not even the frantic buzzing of her phone from somewhere within the pile of discarded clothing is enough to rouse her, until it eventually becomes a little too demanding and she’s forced to crab walk over to fish it off the floor.

_12 Missed Calls._

_Regina Mills._

And so it begins.

–-

She wears white and nobody sniggers, Mary Margaret standing by her side, her eyes shining with unshed tears, as David places her hand into Killian’s; the thrill that runs up her arm as he caresses her hand with his thumb somehow even more intense than the ones he sent through her just hours ago with tongue and teeth and cock.

They say their vows - non-personalised and to a God neither really believe in - and everybody claps. Emma thinks Regina nods her approval as they make their way down the rose lined aisle, but it’s hard to tell when she only has eyes for Killian, the photographer’s instructions fading into a sort of happy haze as they gaze at each other with matching stupid grins.

She throws her bouquet to Belle, who flushes like one of the blooms while Will beams like the cat who got the cream, and dances with her brother, wiping his tears with the end of his tie, but it’s still Killian she seeks out every time they spin. His arms she craves to be in.

And then the music changes, something old and crooning that she’d never chosen - and she is.

“All right there, love?” he asks as they sway together. “You’re very quiet.”

“Just thinking,” she says, resting her head against his shoulder, ignoring the way the hairpins dig into her scalp just to get that little bit closer.

“Good thoughts, I hope,” he says, his chin on her head.

“Just y’know,” she sighs. “Something David said to me.”

“Oh,” he chuckles. “Do I want to know?”

“About what life is,” she says, lifting her head slightly so that she can look him in the eye. “He says it’s what you make of it.”

“And what shall we make it?” he asks, but his smile is bright as the sun, and she knows he feels the same, can feel it in her very bones; a certainty that settles within her and grounds her to this moment, to this man.

“Happily ever after.”


End file.
